‘ “We Will Rock You”? Queen?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘It’s their song. But why now?’
Lene leaned back as well, and raised her face to the sun.
‘He needed money for his wedding. And for presents. It had to be a big do, he had pulled out all the stops. He was terrified of losing his wife. Or he just couldn’t wait. He was paid the krone equivalent of 200,000 Swiss francs from Running Man Casino one month before his wedding. He bought his wife a car, a Rolex and a diamond ring. I think he transferred the money without asking for permission first and they found out.’
Michael lit another cigarette and she looked at him.
‘This is a trade. You understand that, don’t you, Michael? I know that you’ll insist on client confidentiality and all that, but we’re both here because we’re in seriously deep shit. And because it has become personal. They took my daughter. That’s unacceptable. I wish I could forget all about it and find a way to move on, but I know that I can’t, no matter how much time I give myself. I’ll always fear that they might take her again.’
‘I would feel the same way,’ he said. ‘And I’ll answer all your questions. Kim Andersen was a Royal Life Guards veteran who belonged to a group of ex-soldiers who took part in a manhunt in north Norway up by Porsanger Fjord. Kasper Hansen was chased over a cliff edge and his wife disappeared. Kim Andersen injured his leg during the hunt. You can see a bandage on the DVD and I’m absolutely sure that he was there.’
‘The forensic examiners said that he had a gunshot wound to his leg.’ She nodded. ‘It was never treated by a doctor. They’re certain. He told his wife that he hurt himself falling over a tree while hunting in Sweden. In March 2011. He came back from Afghanistan in 2008, but wasn’t treated for depression until June 2011. His wife told me he changed after that hunting trip.’
‘That would imply the hunters armed Kasper Hansen,’ Michael said, after mulling it over.
‘How very sporting of them,’ she remarked.
‘Yes.’
‘But why?’
Michael got up and started pacing up and down. ‘Because they could? Because they were bored? Because they were psychos? Or adrenaline junkies?’
A suggestion of a smile appeared at the corner of the superintendent’s mouth.
‘Probably all of the above,’ she said. ‘Plus, Flemming Caspersen was paying them shedloads of money.’
‘That’s the conclusion I’m coming to. But why did he do it?’
Lene sat for a while before speaking.
‘I’ve learned that men can be extremely vain. They all run marathons these days, don’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘They think they can outrun death.’
‘Flemming Caspersen did actually run a marathon a few days before he died,’ Michael remarked.
Lene nodded. ‘Perhaps killing others reduces your own fear of death? Or maybe there is no explanation, even though we think there has to be one. Perhaps we’ll never know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘First comes motive, then planning and committing a crime. That’s what we’re used to dealing with, but it’s too simplistic in this case. I don’t think you or I will ever be able to understand people like them. I spoke to a psychologist at the Institute for Military Psychology the other day. She seemed very insightful. According to her, Kim Andersen and Allan Lundkvist were quite normal, psychologically speaking, even though they had lived under extraordinary conditions and could do extraordinary things.’
‘Normal?’
‘Normal, yes. When measured with the tools available to psychologists, tools devised by normal people. They weren’t obsessive or hallucinating, they weren’t paranoid or babbling about conspiracy theories, nor were they driven by an urge to isolate themselves – even though Kim Andersen came close. They weren’t clinically insane, but even so a normal – or relatively normal – person would find them impossible to understand.’
She got up.
‘Wait here,’ she said.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Michael said.
A moment later Lene returned with a photograph in her hand. He took it from her and studied it. The left third had been folded back.
‘I’ve seen this picture before,’ he said. ‘The other night at Pederslund, a hunting lodge owned by Flemming Caspersen’s business partner, Victor Schmidt. Kim Andersen also appeared in some of the hunting photographs there. Royal Life Guards veterans work on the estate as gamekeepers or belong to one of the shooting syndicates. One of Victor Schmidt’s sons was an officer in the Royal Life Guards.’
‘Which one?’
‘Jakob Schmidt.’
‘Is he in the photograph?’
‘Perhaps. I’m not sure. They’re hard to identity. Who are the others?’
Lene pointed. ‘Kim Andersen. Suicide. Left of him is Robert Olsen, the guy with the red beard, and next to him Kenneth Enderlein with the dragon tattoo on his chest. They were both killed in May 2011 by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. The man to the right of Kim Andersen is – or was – Allan Lundkvist,’ she went on, ‘a thirty-five-year-old beekeeper and private first class in the Royal Life Guards. He lived near the RLG Barracks in Høvelte. He was shot through the head with a .22-calibre bullet yesterday. I found him. I was meant to find him. The whole thing was a set-up.’
‘So that was where you …?’
‘Saw my daughter being tortured, yes.’
‘How many were they?’ he asked.
‘Two. One killed Allan Lundkvist and beat me up; the other assaulted my daughter in an abandoned warehouse in Sydhavnen. There could have been more of them, of course, I don’t know.’
‘You watched it via an online link?’
‘Yes.’
Michael nodded. ‘Right, let’s try to do the maths here. Allan Lundkvist is dead, as are Kim Andersen, Kenneth Enderlein and Robert Olsen. So who is left?’
The superintendent’s fingertip hovered over the last man in the photograph. The survivor.
‘He would appear to be the only one still alive,’ she said. ‘He has a tattoo on his neck. A scorpion. Kim Andersen’s wife thought his name might be Tom, but she wasn’t sure. Nor did she know if he was even Danish. The photo was taken outside an Afghan town called Musa Qala. Could that be Victor Schmidt’s son?’
‘Jakob?’
‘Yes.’
Michael scrutinized the photograph.
‘He’s standing apart from the others,’ he said. ‘Something Jakob Schmidt would undoubtedly do. I’ve met him. He’s a very cold young man. And intelligent. It could be him. It’s the right hair colour. And build. He’s the right height.’
‘But you’re not sure?’
Michael lowered his gaze.
‘No. The gamekeeper at Pederslund is called Thomas. I haven’t met him. He runs a safari business. Thomas Berg.’
‘How many people were on the film?’ she asked.
‘Seven, including the client.’
She nodded and counted on her fingers: ‘Kim Andersen, Robert Olsen, Kenneth Enderlein, Allan Lundkvist, the man with the scorpion tattoo and Flemming Caspersen. Who’s the seventh man?’
He looked at her and shrugged. ‘I guess it could be Jakob Schmidt.’
‘Was he the one who attacked you?’
Michael touched his head and carefully pressed the cut with his fingertips.
‘No. But I think he wished he had. He had found out that I had searched his room. The person who attacked me took my computer and the DVD … and slammed a door into my head before he left.’
‘You kept the DVD in your room?’ she said in disbelief.
‘I was working on it. I had to have it nearby, didn’t I? I had hidden it.’
‘Hidden it?’
‘Yes, of course I bloody had.’
Michael was aware that he was reddening. He wasn’t used to this. Previously he had always been able to charm people, but Lene was immune. Not one aspect of h
er was susceptible to that charm, and Michael’s vanity was suffering, even though he realized why she was so intent behind her grief. He was beginning to see why you should never come between a female bear and her cubs. It was a bloody dangerous place to be. The hunters had made an incredibly bad mistake by taking her daughter, he realized. They had messed with the controls in nature’s engine room. And they hadn’t understood how fatal that could be because they were men.
‘So we carry on?’ he asked.
‘What with? You already know who they are.’
Michael thought it was obvious: some hunters, some army veterans and a bloodthirsty, deranged billionaire. A fertile environment for the realization of sick fantasies at an enchanted, isolated castle. A discreet payment route in the West Indies. He could visualize it: the euphoria after that day’s shoot and the triumphant display of the bag, the thrill of increasingly frowned-upon masculinity, the lunches, the bragging, the fascination with weapons and their finely honed skills. Feelings of superiority had flourished under far less favourable conditions.
‘I think I do. But there must have been someone higher up who organized it. Have you ever met the man with the scorpion tattoo?’
‘I saw him in a car parked outside a hotel in Holbæk where I spent the night after Kim Andersen’s suicide. I saw him from the back.’
‘Were you meant to see him?’
‘I don’t think so. I went for a walk after dinner. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.’
‘Why were you even there, when it was a suicide?’
She looked annoyed. ‘The wife handcuffed him.’
‘What?!’
She sighed and yanked a short, dark brown lock of hair in anger. ‘To attract our interest, I presume.’
‘In what?’
She looked at him. ‘In the money, Michael. The change in his personality. The car and the diamonds. She knew something was terribly wrong with Kim. The injury to his leg. His depression. Part of me totally gets where she’s coming from. She, too, was trying to protect her children.’
‘Have you seen the guy with the scorpion since?’
She hesitated.
‘I don’t think so. My daughter met a man at the café where she works. She thought … well, she believed she was going on a date with him. People in the café must have seen him, but I haven’t spoken to any witnesses yet.’
‘Was he at Allan Lundkvist’s place?’
‘He might have been. I never saw him. I waltzed straight in and found Allan dead in the living room. Covered by a hell of a lot of bees. I was an idiot.’
She described the attack, being naked, the collar around her neck, how it had taken her a long time to knock over the chair, get hold of the craft knife and free herself. She had called Charlotte Falster, who had found Josefine for her.
‘Did you see his hands?’ he asked.
‘Gloves.’
‘How about his wrists?’
‘I don’t think so. Why?’
Michael remembered Jakob Schmidt’s distinctive twist of the hand when he pulled back his sleeve to check his watch, and the white mark under the strap on his tanned skin.
‘Jakob Schmidt wears a stainless steel Rolex on his left wrist,’ he said. ‘He’s tanned, but the skin under his watch is white.’
He saw her trawl though her memories. Then she shook her head: ‘No wrists. I’m sure. I’m usually good at noticing things … or at least recalling them later … when it’s too late. Gloves, ski masks. The man who tortured my daughter wore a black fetish leather mask, one of those with a lot of zips. He had very clear blue eyes. Smiling, blue eyes, in fact.’
Lene fell silent and Michael watched her closely. The tears crept out behind the sunglasses and trickled down her cheeks.
‘You’re crying,’ he said.
‘Am I?’
She dried her tears with her sleeves.
‘They had added a soundtrack. A song. “I’m on Fire”.’
‘Springsteen?’
‘He caned my daughter to the beat of the song.’
Michael said nothing.
‘I’m truly terrified of them,’ she said, looking down at her lap. ‘I am. Their methods really work.’
‘I’m scared of them too,’ he said. ‘And we have every reason to be. But someone has to stop them. If they think they’re smarter and cleverer than anyone else, their actions will only get worse. It’s inevitable.’
She took a deep breath and looked at him with eyes that glowed green like water.
‘So you know who they are, you know what they do and have done, you know how they transfer the money, and you almost know who is behind the organization. All you’re missing is …’
‘Evidence,’ he said. ‘Though I’m starting not to care very much about the law.’
She smiled. ‘Me neither. But I don’t suppose we can just find them and shoot them.’
‘No,’ he conceded. ‘Even though it’s tempting.’
‘I think there might be some evidence in Kim Andersen’s cottage,’ she said. ‘We missed something when we were there, the CSOs and me.’
‘What?’
‘Their laptop was gone. It would be good to find it. And they have a chimney and a fine lean-to with a perfect log pile – but no fireplace. Only an oil tank. What if Kim Andersen built a place …’
‘He was a carpenter, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
Michael got up.
‘It’s worth looking into,’ he said.
‘I agree,’ she said.
‘I presume you didn’t walk here,’ he said.
‘I borrowed my boss’s car.’
‘I need to buy some kit,’ Michael said. ‘Including a sleeping bag that fits me.’
She put the car keys in his hand. ‘White Passat, a few hundred metres down the road. Please would you buy two sleeping bags while you’re at it, and do you need any money?’
Michael patted his pocket.
‘For once that’s the only thing I have plenty of,’ he said.
‘Shout out when you come back,’ she said. ‘Or you risk a bullet to the head. I mean it. And if you see a torch, buy it.’
Chapter 41
When Michael returned to the scout hut a few hours later, laden down with sports bags, carrier bags and with a rucksack on his back, the bench outside was empty. Nor was Lene inside. He sat down and put his bags on the floor while needle-sharp claws played the xylophone up and down his spine.
He went out into the sunshine and looked around the clearing.
Nothing.
She had told him to call out when he came back if he didn’t want to get shot, so he had shouted out his name a couple of times, stood very still and listened to the birds and the distant hum of transmission cables. He walked into the wood and a few minutes later, he found Lene at the foot of a tree in a sunlit clearing – fast asleep.
Michael breathed a sigh of relief and tried to hide his annoyance as he walked up to her. Lene was sitting in between the roots of the tree with her knees pulled up to her chest and a black Heckler & Koch MP5 machine pistol on her lap; the favoured close-combat weapon for all soldiers and police officers. A twig snapped under his foot and the sound was followed by the click of the machine pistol’s safety catch being removed – a sound with which Michael was extremely familiar. He now looked straight down the barrel of the gun, which was aimed at a point between his eyes. Over the fore sight the superintendent’s eyes were narrowed, but strangely cloudy as though she weren’t fully conscious. A finger curled around the trigger and Michael closed his eyes.
‘It’s me,’ he said wearily, and held up his hands in front of his face, as if they could stop a bullet. He pressed his eyes shut, turned his face away and waited …
The shot never came and he opened one eye very slightly. Lene had got up and was looking at him without expression.
‘You should have shouted,’ she said.
‘I did,’ he snapped.
‘Sorry.’
H
is knees were shaking.
She secured the weapon and walked past him with strangely wooden movements.
‘I bought sleeping bags,’ he said angrily to her back. ‘And a torch and a new laptop … and a bottle of wine.’
‘Wine?’
‘Châteauneuf-du-Pape.’
‘And a corkscrew?’
‘There’s just no pleasing you, is there?’
She didn’t reply and carried on walking.
*
Michael took out his new mobile and looked at the display. The first thing he had done was send a text message to Keith Mallory in London, and the Englishman’s one-word reply was: Contact. Michael smiled and nearly tripped over a tree root. He tried Sara’s mobile and was in luck.
‘Hi, darling, it’s me.’
‘I’ve been calling and calling, Michael. Has something happened to you?’
Her voice was trembling, and Michael knew that she was close to tears and fighting it as hard as she could. Sometimes she succeeded, other times not.
‘I’m fine, darling. Really I am. I’m all right.’
Lene was swallowed up by the scout hut.
‘Are you sure? What happened?’
Michael ran his hand over the stubble at the back of his head and considered various responses.
‘I was attacked and someone took my laptop and some other important stuff,’ he said.
‘Attacked? Who by, when, where …? Are you hurt?’
‘I don’t know who it was, Sara, but it happened last night at my hotel room. The only thing to suffer permanent damage is my pride.’
There was a long pause. He could hear only her breathing.
‘Michael …’
He looked up at the bare treetops. Sara and he had been here before and he didn’t want to go there again. Not right now. He didn’t have the energy. And he didn’t have the time.
‘I’m trying, I really am,’ she said.
‘I know you are. You’re doing really well, Sara.’
‘When will you be done?’ she asked.
‘It’ll be some time. Your brother’s holiday cottage … Could you go there with the kids?’
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